‘No.’
‘I swear I won’t tell anyone what happened.’
‘No. I cannot trust in that.’
She bit her lip. ‘Please don’t lock me up. It is so cold and lonely here, and I am frightened. Can you not show mercy?’
‘You must stay put until I work out what to do with you.’
‘But, Peyton, please.’ She batted her long eyelashes at him.
His name on her lips felt like a mockery, and Peyton saw the deceit behind the beautiful face. Humiliation burned him. Did she think him a complete fool? ‘You cannot go home, and that is final,’ he said, his temper rising.
Tears welled in Cecily’s lovely eyes, and one slid down her cheek and fell onto her lap. Even crying, she did prettily. But her jaw worked a little as if she was trying to contain her emotions.
‘I will try to make your stay as comfortable as possible, Cecily. Do you need anything?’
She heaved a great sigh. ‘Might I take a bath?
‘A bath?’
‘Aye, for I am filthy and stink of dirt.’
‘You look clean enough to me,’ he said, drinking in the sight of her. His eyes must have lingered too long, for she swallowed hard and looked down at her hands.
‘I…I want to wash Edmund off me,’ she said in a strangled voice.
‘Well, you will have to make do with a bowl and a rag for now,’ he said, wincing inside at his blunt manner of speaking. He was not used to reasoning with women, especially ones who looked like Cecily MacCreadie.
She rose and stared into his eyes. She was so perfectly beautiful that Peyton could barely look at her without feeling raw inside, exposed. It was as if she stripped away his skin to see his innards, to reveal every one of his faults, and each swelled in the mirror of her loveliness. He was painfully aware of his rough hands, his clumsy words, his bull-like strength, the way he towered over her delicacy like a big lumbering brute. All his shortcomings were laid bare in her calm, placating gaze.
‘I would be most grateful if you could get your servants to set me a bath,’ she said.
‘Would you now,’ he scoffed. ‘Do you think you are some fine lady who can command folk to haul water up four flights of stairs for your comfort? Save your airs and graces. There is no place for them here, and I’ll not indulge them.’
‘It is not airs and graces to be clean. I need to wash Edmund off. Have pity. I feel his touch on me, and it is making my flesh creep,’ she cried.
‘I said no.’
Tears welled, and for a moment, Peyton felt sorry for her despite the trouble she had caused him. He took hold of Cecily, meaning to comfort her.
She squirmed in the cage of his arms and then said, ‘You make my flesh creep, too. Get off me, kidnapper.’ It was as if she echoed Lorna’s scorn.
Cecily had to get away from the awful Peyton. But his grip tightened like a vice. When he first came in, the morning sun in his dark eyes had softened them somewhat, reducing his ferocity. Cecily imagined she saw sadness, pity, and even beauty in them. But now they were black with anger, and her plan to use her feminine wiles to get free of him had gone terribly wrong.
‘Who wounded your soul to make you so cruel?’ she spat. ‘You are a thug, a villain.’
‘I’m no villain.’
‘Aye, you are. Look at the state of you – all those bruises over your face.’
‘You have bruises, too. Does that make you a villain?’
Cecily saw red and kicked and screamed in a frenzy, but it had no effect on the wall of muscle before her.
‘Be still, lass,’ he cried.
‘No, let me go, you ruffian,’ she howled.
